The Master Thief
by Dinas Emrys
Summary: Drawn by the challenge of stealing the whole of Forever Fall from its lord, Master Thief Roman Torchwick enters into a series of trials against the local Baron. The challenge: to steal a seemingly impossible item without being caught. The problem: the Baron and his daughter get one day to steal it back. Featuring Sephora for CodyKnight22. Part 3 of the Remnant Fairytales series.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

 _Based loosely on the Grimm version of 'The Master Thief.' Aarne-Thompson Type 1525A._

Once upon a time, in a land not unlike our own, there was a man who called himself a Master Thief. The title was well-deserved, for the former son of a destitute candle-maker had spent his youth robbing the richest and snobbiest nobles of the Four Kingdoms, buying the goodwill of the peasantry with their masters' gold and keeping the lion's share for his own devices. Everywhere he travelled, tales were spun of impossible heists, of a cat-burglar who could slip past the most well-armed knight, or clamber up into the highest window. While many were true, the stories grew greater and more unbelievable with each re-telling, with yet another guard to make the fool, or another princess to romance.

 _Frankly_ , Roman thought as he sipped his ale in the corner of the darkened common room, _I could do with a little less renown and a little more anonymity._ Still, nobles shuddered at the mere mention of his name, and guards crossed themselves in fear of accidentally bringing his wrath down upon them.

After all, Roman Torchwick was the man who could steal _anything_.

Which was how he'd ended up in the Kingdom of Vale, the collar of his fur-lined coat pulled up against his neck, seated in some crummy bar with a mug of frothy liquid that could only charitably be called 'ale.' He'd been there several days already, and his patience was rapidly dwindling. He was _supposed_ to be scoping out his next heist, listening to the grumblings of the unwashed peasants who came to this dump.

The pub was a dive, but one frequented by a few of the nearby castle's staff. Which, normally, should have made it ideal for his purposes. Servants see _everything_ , and there is no better source of information on puffed-up lords and ladies than a liquored-up guard or scullery maid. By now, he should be three cups in with the junior-under-cook or some such nonsense, planning a run at a rich moronic noble, content and secure in his unearned wealth. The richer they were, the more confidence they had in their security, and the easier it always was to rob them blind.

Unfortunately, the Baron of Forever Fall refused to be that kind of noble. From the snippets and gossip Torchwick heard, the man had suffered some life-changing experience or idiotic epiphany several years back, sealed himself in his suit of armor, and declared that he would refuse any gifts that were not shared amongst his people. Since that day, the man had eaten the same food as his servants, walked the same roads, even worked the same fields for god-knows what reason. He levied far lighter taxes than he could, and what treasury he had was dedicated to helping the people, not merely his own enjoyment. Many of his knights had long since left, furious at having their fortunes and privilege denied to them. Still others flocked to his banner, called by the promises of equality, of integrity.

It was rather inconsiderate of him, really.

Just thinking of the concept was enough to make Roman's stomach turn. The man was a bloody friend to the people, and a poor noble made for a poor target. A hoard of gold and jewels was far easier to steal than public education or a well-built bridge, not that he couldn't pull that one off as well. More importantly, riches were far easier to pawn. It was far harder to find a buyer for the bridge.

 _Plus,_ Roman thought, taking a swig of his drink and grimacing at the taste. _Pandering to the brain-dead populace is supposed to be_ my _job._

Abandoning his drink, Roman rose from his corner table, tipped his hat to the barkeep, and resolved to leave the barony for more lucrative prospects. No sense in sticking around when there was nothing to steal. There was rumored to be a lovely duchy over in Atlas that he could visit ...

"I 'eard," one intoxicated farmer said to another as the Thief passed them by. "The baron's seekin' a marriage for 'is daughter."

Roman came to a halt, his hand already on the door. Now _that_ might be something worth sticking around for. For him, noble marriage arrangements and courtship rituals translated roughly into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Courting nobility meant visiting lordlings and their attendants, and that meant a bunch of arrogant fops in gilded carriages rolling through the woods with a stash of gold usually hidden somewhere under the seat.

Then again, with the Baron's _eccentricities_ , there probably wouldn't be all that many prospective suitors. The average lord wouldn't have much interest in marrying some girl if there wasn't any money in it.

Still ... might be worth a listen.

Slipping into the shadows by the door, Roman perked up his ears as the second farmer, complete with tangled beard and dirt-stained tunic, snorted and downed half his beer in a single go. "That can't be easy. Not many nobles wan' ta marry the daughter of the 'Pauper Baron.'"

"That's 'bout wot I expected, but Martha said her brother's cousin – you know 'im, the groomsman – 'e 'eard the Baron tell the court that any man can marry 'er, so long as 'e proves 'imself ..." The man paused, looking around the room as if what he was about to say was actually important. Leaning in closer, he brought his hand to his mouth, " _Worthy_."

"You won't see me givin' it a try," the bearded farmer scoffed. "I saw the Baron tear through a bunch o' bandits two seasons back. Ah'm not gettin' anywhere near 'im so long as 'e got a blade in 'is 'and."

"Gentlemen," Roman purred as he slid into the chair opposite the two men, waving at the barmaid for another round of their swill. "I hate to interrupt, but I think you're missing the full picture. Strength of arms is not the only way to prove you're 'worthy.'"

The two farmers glanced over at their new companion with bleary eyes. But their suspicions vanished as the drinks arrived, and soon they were welcoming the arrival of their new friend who seemed more than happy to pay for their booze.

In fact, the red-haired man _insisted._

"That's right." The first farmer, who Roman dubbed 'Scruffy,' leaned forward after he finished another pint. "Anyone who wants ta try can challenge the Baron. Trial of arms, wits, speed, 'e dun care. You beat 'im, you can try to woo 'is girl."

"Yeah, like she's 'bout to get married to whoever wins a 'Trial by Farming,'" the bearded one laughed, his words slurred, breath reeking of alcohol. 'Drunky' it was. "They'll find some noble 'oo can joust or some shite and marry 'er off."

"From what you've said," Roman said, pretending to take another swallow of the god-awful beer. "It sounds like you could challenge the man to, oh ... a game of chess, or even cards, if that was what you wanted."

Scruffy nodded. "Aye, and you'd get your arse handed to you. I've seen the Baron come down to the village on festival days. There's a reason no one'll gamble with 'im."

"It was just a thought." Roman said, flinching back as Drunky belched, turning a bit green and holding his dirt-smudged hand over his mouth before reaching again for his flagon. "Well, this has been an eventful evening. Thank you both for the _delightful_ conversation."

Leaving the coins for another round on the table – might as well get them drunk enough to forget their ever saw him – he gathered up his coat and hat and slipped out the door.

The rain was thick and heavy outside, flying sideways and chilling Roman to the bone. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he walked down the deserted streets, had clasped tightly to his head.

 _Well, that was interesting_ , he thought, trying to ignore the storm. Even if the whole 'you must defeat me' thing was a peculiar way to find a son-in-law. Still, it was hardly the _worst_ engagement scheme he'd heard. There was always that thing he'd seen in Mistral with the three boxes. Or that idiotic riddle in Tyre with the incestuous king.

It left him with a few options. On the one hand, he could set up shop along the main roads, catching any number of arrivals coming or going. He could probably even fleece a few good marks before the Baron and his men caught wind of what he was up to. That was the safe route, the one that ended with him a little bit richer and a little bit further down the road. It just wasn't flashy.

On the other, he'd never stolen a whole barony before.

Roman couldn't quite keep the grin from twisting his lips as he vanished into the darkened streets.

 _Should be fun._

* * *

 **Writer's Note: So, this is something that has been a long time coming. More importantly, this is something I promised to CodyKnight22, who is one of the bigger fans of this particular trash ship. So Cody, here's the start of the Sephora I promised you.**

 **Just as a reminder, this is the third entry in my _Remnant Fairy Tales_ series. Please go check out the previous one, _The Princess and the Dragon_ , if you haven't already.**

 **As usual, reviews are always appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It was a long and winding road up to the castle. The cobblestone track curved around the valley, giving potential visitors ample time to enjoy the pastoral beauty of Forever Fall at its finest. It was the middle of autumn, and despite the region's name, its true harvest season had only just begun. The leaves were their deepest, richest crimson, and those few trees that weren't ever-reds had turned to a brilliant display of orange and yellow, giving the land a bright, dawn-like glow. Tiny farmers tilled tiny fields in the distance as overladen carts sat heaped with crops, gathered before the first frost of winter could arrive.

Preparations for the harvest festival had come with the leaves, and people from all over the region were making their way to the heart of the barony. The castle town was filled carts and stands as bakers, merchants, and artisans bustled about the busy streets. Everyone was busy readying their wares and waiting anxiously for the evening festivities. The scent of meat pies hung heavy in the air around one vendor, while a bevy of candied apples gleamed nearby, caramel dripping from their racks. Lanterns and banners hung from every roof and storefront, heralding the party soon to begin.

All this was lost on the red-haired man riding by. Roman gazed out at the scene with a practiced disinterest, his eyes focused more on purse-strings and coin-pouches than the decorations. The Master Thief sat perched atop the back of a pure-white destrier, the horse stolen – of course – from a Vacuan lord, along with a substantial amount of gold. An ermine-trimmed cloak, courtesy of the Duke of Atlas, graced his shoulders, while a velvet cap sat cockily on his brow. He was every bit the picture of the well-dressed country lord.

Well ... probably better-dressed actually. _Can't expect some bumpkin noble to understand style._

The river of travelers – farmers with vegetables or grain to sell and visiting merchants laden with goods – parted as Roman trotted towards the country estate, the odd peasant eyeing him curiously. The Thief was only too happy to let them, tipping his hat and smirking as he passed. After all, it couldn't hurt to give them a bit of a show. Give it a month or two and he'd be their new baron. At least until he could find some sucker to offload the estate onto. It only made sense to introduce himself to his soon-to-be vassals.

The road sloped at the edge of the castle grounds, leading past well-trimmed lawns to an open gate, servants and visitors trickling back and forth as they prepared for the festivities. The castle walls towered high above him as he walked through the gate, parapets bedecked with banners flapping proudly in the wind. Halfway through the gate, Roman felt a prickling on the back of his neck, and couldn't help but glance up at the raised portcullis, the spikes hovering above his head as he passed beneath them. He was far beyond the point in his career when a set of iron bars made escape impossible, and he'd probably have more than enough time to clear the castle before they could even rouse the guard. Still ... moving under those iron spikes put his teeth on edge.

Putting on his most innocent and proper smile, Roman nudged his horse forward, glancing around for a footman or servant. Anyone who might know exactly where he was supposed to go for these ill-considered contests.

He needn't have bothered. Within seconds, a liveried servant appeared before him, ready to take the reins. Nodding to the man, Roman waited for him to hold his mount steady, then swung his legs over the horse's back. He landed softly in the packed dirt of the courtyard, brushing dust from the road off his clothes. As the man led the horse away, another footman appeared, bowing briefly before escorting the obvious nobleman into the castle.

Roman's guide led the way down one of the side corridors. Feigning interest in the décor, the Thief trained his eyes straight ahead, silently taking stock of every side path and potential escape route they passed. It was a necessary part of his profession – any job could always go sour, and being ready to escape at a moment's notice tended to come in handy.

After a minute, the two men came to halt in a smaller antechamber, with doors heading off in every direction and a spiraling staircase leading up to the floor above.

"If you'll wait here, sir," the guide said as another liveried servant trotted up to meet them. "I won't be but a moment."

Nodding absently, Roman kept his eyes on the room, counting the seconds in his head as he waited and trying to decide how peeved he should seem when the servant returned. Few nobles liked to be kept waiting, especially not by the 'lesser' classes, and any good fake noble made sure to fit the stereotype as closely as he could.

With nothing else to do, Roman looked around, growing increasingly surprised by how little ornamentation the place had. The inside of the castle was more subtle that Roman expected from Vale's nobility. The sconces on the walls were pure iron, cold and practical next to the gold or silver decorations in most of the places Torchwick robbed. The odd tapestry hung from the walls – aged, but well-cared for. Missing were the ivory or marble statues that graced most Atlesian manors, or intricate Mistrali frescoes, or the racks of decorative weapons that Valeans were so fond of. Apart from the harvest decorations being carted into the great hall, the whole place looked almost sparse, utilitarian. The only additions to the room were the bookcases lining the walls above the staircase, leading into what Roman assumed would be the library.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and Roman looked up at the balcony above him. A young woman sat on a chaise lounge at the top of the stairs, one arm resting on the polished banister. Her dress was a black velvet that clung to her sides, with a deep indigo under-dress that trailed from her arms, rustling as she turned the pages of the book lying in her lap. Hair a darker shade than even her dress draped across her shoulders, the bangs falling into her golden eyes as she read. Despite himself, Torchwick had to admit he was impressed: either she was the baron's daughter, or

As if feeling his eyes on her, the young woman looked up from her reading. She blinked twice, her eyes adjusting to the distance, before looking right back at the Master Thief. Gold eyes bored down into green as she met his stare. Her expression betrayed little of what was going through her head, but the intensity of her gaze gave him the unmistakable feeling of being judged.

Grabbing the brim of his hat, Roman plucked it from his head. The corner of his mouth twitched as he nodded his head up at the girl, unable to completely keep the smirk from his face. She would do as his bride-to-be, however temporary the engagement actually turned out to be. Plus, with her looks, he was sure she could find someone else to comfort her after the barony passed to him.

Without a word, the girl turned away, her curiosity sated. Her book closed with a snap, and as she stood, the light shifted just enough for Roman to notice something he'd missed at first glance: a pair of short, tufted ears resting atop her head, twitching as an errant breeze caught them.

 _And there's the catch,_ Roman thought as he turned back to the rest of the ground level. _Pity. If she weren't a Faunus, she'd have every man in the kingdom after her, poor father or no._

Still, even a mixed-blood noblewoman had claim to her title. That itself would be enough to draw a few nobles with lesser fortunes or merchant's sons with a sudden hankering for legitimacy. After all, there had to be plenty of suitors who would overlook a few bestial traits in exchange for a perfectly serviceable barony. With a little luck, the children might even be pure-blooded humans, or at least look enough like one to pass.

He couldn't help but stare as she walked away deeper into the library, long black tail swishing back and forth as she moved, drawing the eye to her rather well-shaped behind.

A cough drew his attention back to the ground floor. Turning, Roman nodded to the waiting servant and, cap in-hand, followed him down the side hall.

Fortunately, this seemed to be the last one. His guide showed him into yet another waiting room before a set of thick oak doors, this one with a small clump of men gathered around. They were unmistakably nobles, their clothes telling Roman everything he needed to know about exactly how much each of them were worth. Frankly, it was a little disappointing. They were all country lords, men whose families stayed close to the land, rarely rising in the ranks or hoarding the kind of coin that brought the attention of a Master Thief. Their conversations were as much about the season's crops as the news from court, and Roman's practiced eyes noticed specs of dirt under more than a few of the men's fingernails.

Just as the conversations were turning to local fashions that made Torchwick's stomach turn, an aged man in formal robes emerged from the double doors. As one, the rest of the nobles quickly rose from where they were resting, straightening cloaks and trying not to look like they were wearing their uncle's passed-down doublet. Smirking, Roman took his spot at the end of the line, trying not to chuckle as the line of proud peacocks waltzed into the hall. With their bright colors, plush fabrics, and way too many feathers to actually be fashionable, they looked more like a costume parade than respectable suitors. Still, the Thief was as flashily-dressed as the rest of the men trickling into the hall, his ermine cape draped rakishly across his back and some lordling's jeweled cane held under one arm.

The Baron was holding court. At the far end of the room was a man, seated atop a dais and clad head-to-toe in pitch-black plate. The armor shone with a deep luster that spoke of constant care, and deep scratches in the breastplate showed the aftermath of countless battles. It was a warrior's armor, not the polished silver sheen of formal wear Roman had seen far too often. The leftover marks of combat left little doubt about that. Atop it all sat a gleaming armet helm, the point of the closed visor glaring down at the young men assembled in the hall.

 _He's more armored suit than man,_ Roman thought, smirking as a particularly unprepared lordling stepped forward, waited to be announced, then bowed before the grim specter. Stammering through the greeting, the young man – he couldn't be more than seventeen – stopped as the Baron raised his hand. A deep, metallic voice chimed through the lowered visor, thanking the suitor for his time but, regrettably, dismissing him. Looking almost relieved, the boy scampered off, only for a new pompous ass to take his place.

Roman watched as the other men approached the throne one-by-one. Like clockwork, each man walked to the foot of the dais, and was announced by the elderly servant who'd let them into the room. Bowing deeply, they each got out about a sentence of greeting or amorous offers, only for the Baron to wave them away with one gauntleted hand. A few named challenges – a test of arms, a joust, a duel – only for the ebon-armored man to nod and wave them away. A scribe caught the men as they moved aside, jotting down the details of their particular challenges, scheduling like-minded men together so that the Baron might defeat them in quick succession.

Sneaking a look at the tome, Roman couldn't help but gape at the sheer number of tilts the Baron had arranged back-to-back. Granted, there would have to be pauses between challengers, and he from the looks of these men, he doubted they'd give the armored Baron much trouble. _Still ..._

Finally, the line started to thin, the last few men heading to the front of the room to declare their challenges.

"Lord Cardin Winchester of Vale," the old man declared to the slowly emptying room, and Roman could have sworn that he heard a note of distaste in the servant's otherwise monotonous voice. _Guess s_ _omebody's not popular here._

Winchester challenged the baron to a tilt – _–_ before being ushered aside.

 _Just one more._

"Marquis Verdir of Atlas." With yet another joust. S _eriously, are these morons capable of anything else?_

 _Whatever. It's showtime._

As the last man left, Roman stepped forward, lifting the train of his cloak over one arm. Putting a hand on the old man's arm, he shook his head, lips already twisted in a sneer.

"Allow me."

Sweeping his leg behind him, the red-haired miscreant bowed, one hand reaching up to doff his cap.

"Ser Roman Torchwick, your lordliness. The infamous Master Thief, at your service."

* * *

 **Writer's Note: So, I'm going to try to put this out every other Sunday (which I'm calling _Sephora Sunday_ for the hell of it). Should be enough time to make sure I can do consistent updates. Plus it'll keep me occupied until the last episode of _Life is Strange_ finally comes out.**

 **Please leave a review if you can. I'd love to hear what people think of this rarepair, and frankly seeing notifications in my inbox just makes me a happy person.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

For a long moment, complete and utter silence filled the room. Nobles and guards alike blinked in confusion, looking between each other and the red-headed man, trying to decide if they could trust their ears. Whispers began to carry through the chamber, echoing off the stone walls for all to hear.

"What did he say?"

"That can't be right..."

"What in the world..."

"... is it really him?"

Steel rang through the guests' chittering, as several of the suitors drew their blades. Eager to come to their potential father-in-law's defense, they started forward, thin and elegant court-swords gleaming with polish and disuse. Boots clomped against the floor as the nearby guards moved in, far more substantial weapons already in-hand. Within seconds, the exits were blocked, as servants hurried to shut the doors while armed men gathered before them. Yet throughout it all, Roman held his pose, still bowed, eyes locked on the armored figure seated on the throne.

Slowly, the plates of his armor creaking, the Baron of Forever Fall leaned forward. Resting his arms on his knees, the Baron steepled his fingers, helmet cocked to the side behind them.

Grinning, Torchwick straightened, flipping his hat with a flick of the wrist before settling it atop his head. "Looks like my reputation proceeds me."

"That it does," the Baron drawled, his voice quiet and filled with gravel from behind his visor. "Tell me, do you always introduce yourself to your target before robbing them?"

"That _would_ be the considerate thing to do, but no." The Thief tapped his cane along the flagstones, counting the guards scattered about the room. Fifteen. Two by each door, seven moving to surround him, and two doing their best to put themselves between the Baron and the Thief. _So only nine to actually deal with. Not too difficult._

"Takes all the fun out of it, really."

"So nice to see you making an exception." The Baron raised a hand, and the guards who had been inching closer stopped in their tracks. "Assuming that what you say is true, what exactly are you here to steal?"

Lips twisted in a smirk, Roman held out his arms at his sides, palms up and empty.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" A huff of disbelief echoed inside the baron's armored helm. "I doubt you would risk the hangman's noose for 'nothing.'"

"It's not that much of a risk. I'm here as your guest. Like every other man here, I've come to win your daughter's hand."

The man on the throne was still and silent, impassive behind the suit of black plate. The quiet hung in the high-ceilinged hall, onlookers' eyes flickering between their lord, his guards, and his most recent challenger. Motion flickered in the corner of Roman's sight, several men and women taking careful steps back towards the doors, sensing how close this all was to erupting into violence. The guards were tense beneath their chain and embroidered tabards, spears held tightly in their grip. Servants glanced back and forth nervously, their hearts beating high in their chests, hands wringing with the anticipation of bloodshed. And yet the Thief simply stood there, perfectly relaxed, not sparing the rest of the room a single glance.

Just as one of the guards started to take another step, a low noise came from within the Baron's helm, a short bark of laughter that made the soldiers' eyes go wide with disbelief.

"Alright," the Baron growled, to shocked gasps from his assembled court. "Name your challenge. A duel? Yet another joust? Or would you prefer to see which of us can split an arrow down the shaft?"

"Do I look like a knight to you?" Rolling his eyes, Roman gestured over at the gaggle of prettied-up lordlings, still trying to look intimidating and capable behind the ring of armed guards. "Plus, you seem to have more than enough contests for your strength at arms."

"What then, thief? A game of riddles? 'I am no viper' and 'this thing all things devours?'"

"What else?" Torchwick said. "Theft."

With a twirl of his cane, Roman began to pace, short steps bringing him back and forth across the floor, startled guards jerking as he moved.

"I challenge you, 'milord,' to a game of wits. You see, I am the man who can steal _anything._ So give me a challenge. Find me one thing you own that I cannot steal, and I'll admit to imperfection."

"There is little game in that, Thief. I could always name this very castle-"

"Oh, Icould take it," Roman cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"... fine. I accept, with one condition: should you actually succeed in stealing something that can't be stolen, I have one day to take it back. Win, and you may ask for my daughter's hand. Fail, or steal from anyone other than me, and you'll marry the rope-maker's daughter." The baron's helmet dipped a little lower, the narrowed eye-slits angled to emphasize the threat. "I'm sure we can get a chorus of ravens for the occasion."

"... subtle," Roman drawled humorlessly. He resisted the urge to fix the cravat tied around his neck, the knotted silk feeling suddenly tighter.

" _I_ thought so." Lounging back in his throne, the Baron waved his hand. Painstakingly slowly, the guards lowered their weapons one by one, and slunk back to their places along the outer wall, glaring daggers back at the red-haired man in the center of the room.

"You have your day. Steal two of my horses from the stable by tomorrow morning, with their grooms still in the saddles."

"Easy enough, your lordliness," Roman said with a smirk. Giving the room one last bow, he turned on his heel, and strode for the doors.

"Just remember, Thief," the baron called as Torchwick stepped out of the hall. "There is nothing you can steal that I cannot take back."

* * *

And so it was that the Master Thief found himself in the clothes of an old peasant woman – taken years ago off a washing line and lovingly scented that day with just the hint of refuse – wandering aimlessly towards the stables in the dead of night. A small cask of Atlesian wine sat clutched in one now-gnarled hand. In the other, a knotty wooden cane that tapped against the stone walk with every other step. A thick shawl hung over his head, casting shadows on his false nose and age-cracked mouth of blackened teeth.

Lights shone from within the castle proper – windows and arrow-slits still lit by torch and candlelight. The murmurs of the guards carried on the wind, talking amongst themselves as they waited for their shifts to end. The last few arrivals trickled in, carriers bringing the final goods for tomorrow's feast and the odd guest delayed by weather or circumstance. Horses, carts, and carriages all gathered atop the flagstones, as liveried servants moved to arrange them in some semblance of order.

Shuffling among them was the small, old woman, her back bent with age, her breath coming in raspy, rattling gasps. She walked with tottering steps, her legs feeble and aching after the day's trek. Placing the cask down in the courtyard, the old woman sat atop it, trembling hands clutched over knees. Every so often, she would cough, deep wheezing hacks that left her throat raw and scratchy. Bringing her hands up to her face, she breathed, trying to warm her hands before another paroxysm of coughing seized her.

Tremulously rising to her feet, the old woman stepped out from behind the carriages, wincing as a flickering light hit her eyes, still sensitive from the darkness. Squinting to clear her vision, the old woman stepped forward, trying to make out the source of the dim amber light. Even with her declining sight, she could just make out some soldiers were lying 'round a fire in front of the stable gate, their eyes sharp for any sign of the infamous thief here to steal their charges.

"Who goes there?" one of the men asked when the old women moved a step too close, coming to his feet with his hand already on his hilt.

"Who speaks there?" the old woman snarled back, her cracked, wavering voice ringing clear through the night air. "Young man, you watch your manners! I haven't been a midwife these sixty years just for you to-"

As her tirade began, one of the other soldiers reached up for his friend's arm. With a whispered word, he pulled his friend back to the fire, before turning to the ranting woman.

"At ease, marm. He's just a bit on edge tonight." The young man spoke with a soft voice, befitting the slight fuzz on his cheeks and his youthful face. "He didn't mean to offend."

"I should hope not! Treating me like some common vagrant – under suspicion! Bah."

Giving her a second look, the young soldier smiled warmly, one arm waving her towards them. "You look cold, marm. Come warm yourself for a moment."

"Hey," the first soldier hissed, trying to keep his voice down and failing miserably. "You know what the Baron said. No one goes near the horses."

"She's not going near the horses. She's going near the fire." Adjusting his helmet, the young soldier pushed a loose strand of blond hair out of his face, before smiling back at the elderly traveler. "Come on, man, look at her. You really think one old woman is a threat to a squad of armed guards?"

The rude soldier looked at his fellows, the firelight flickering on their faces as they turned to face him. Finding only shrugs, he grumbled, flopping back against the wall of the stables. "... I suppose not," he said, arms crossing over his chest. "Just keep an eye on her. And it's your head if the Baron finds out."

Resisting the urge to smirk at their naiveté, the Master Thief tottered up to the ring of guards. Feebly lifting the cask from his back, he groaned in his best impersonation of old age and sat down beside them at the fire.

"What have you got in the little cask, if you don't mind my asking?" asked the young blonde guard.

"A mouthful of wine," 'she' answered, making sure her hand trembled as she stroked it atop the cask. "I trade for my living. For the warmth and a few fair words, I suppose I could let you have a drink."

"Let's have it here, then," said the soldier, clasping his hands as he pulled a flask from inside his jerkin. Looking around at the rest of his crew, he smiled and shrugged, beckoning for them to join him. "Come on boys. One drink won't kill us."

 _Ah, the stupidity of youth,_ Roman thought, coughing one more time for good measure, then filling the moron's flask to the brim.

And so, the old woman filled the flasks of the men, and chatted with them a while, speaking of old travels and days gone by. After the first round, drinks were brought into the grooms inside the stable, the blonde soldier's eagerness overcoming the old woman's reluctance as her cask slowly emptied into the guards' cups.

 _Three, two ... one._

It was barely fifteen minutes before the first guardsman fell to the dirt. Their cups slid from unconscious fingertips as they slumped forward, the sleeping draught taking effect. The rude guard was the last one to fall, giving the old woman a confused, accusing glare before his eyes rolled up in his head.

Roman moved the second his eyes slid shut, hobbling about the campsite and fixing the soldiers into position. Heads with drooling mouths soon found themselves propped up on hands and against spear-shafts, making them look as much like a group of bored, but awake guards as the Thief could manage.

Once the last man was in place, Roman moved slowly into the stables, keeping to his character just in case a stray set of eyes from the castle windows caught sight of the frail old figure tottering around the fire. As soon as he was out of sight, he rose to his full height, his back cracking, complaining after the hours spent hunched over like an octogenarian.

The stable was deserted apart from the guards. The handlers and trainers were all asleep in their beds, dreaming of the harvest festival and dancing vegetables. Only two men were inside – the grooms left to guard the horses themselves. They too were fast asleep, hunched over in their saddles, heads bent down to the horses' necks.

Humming to himself, Torchwick went about his work, unbuckling the girths of the saddles, and lashing the men to the leather seats for good measure. After all, the baron had only said to steal the horses with the men still in the saddles.

 _He didn't say I needed to take the saddles too._

Tying a couple of ropes from a ring on the wall to the saddles, Roman carefully drew the sleeping riders up into the air. One by one, he lifted the men off the horses' backs, their feet still in the stirrups of the saddles hanging beneath them. Lashing the other end of the rope tight to a post, he left them there, dangling like the villagers' harvest decorations, spinning aimlessly from the ceiling.

Wrapping the horses' hooves in old rags, Roman led them carefully out into the courtyard. When he was sure no guard could stop him before he escaped out the opened gate, he took the horses' leads in hand, leapt atop one's back, and galloped off into the night.

It took the Thief half an hour before he found the horse he'd stashed in a grove of trees along the road. Hopping off the Baron's horse, he led the stolen horses into his makeshift camp, lashing their leads to the pommel of his own mount's saddle. Stretching and trying to get some feeling back into his legs – he hated riding bareback – Roman took his time before sliding into his bedroll, sliding his cap down over his eyes before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning found a very dapper man riding back towards the castle, two unsaddled horses following behind his pure-white destrier. The ride was uneventful, even peaceful. A few birds chirped in the autumn air, some of the last voices left before the flocks fled the oncoming cold. Leaves fell here and there, spiraling down before being flicked away by an errant breeze. It left the Thief with plenty of time for his thoughts, keeping his mind occupied as they trotted down the road.

Roman couldn't help but feel just a little sorry for the Baron. Not for falling victim to his tricks - the Baron was the one who had agreed to the terms. If he failed to catch a Master Thief, that was his own fault. And if he had to give up his daughter in marriage to a nouveau-riche vagabond, well ... c'est la vie. It was the way of the world, after all.

Still, it had to be difficult knowing someone out there was just that much smarter than you. Just that much cleverer.

 _Ah, the struggles of_ mediocrity, he thought, shifting back in his seat and trying to find a more comfortable position.

Coming around a bend in the road, one of the horses jerked his lead, straining against the ropes as he tried to turn, eyes locked on the hill to Torchwick's left. Reaching down, Roman gathered the ropes up in his hands, yanking the horses back in line.

His brow furrowed as he stared quizzically over at the abandoned hill. There was no sign of life - no farmers heading into town, no rabbits poking out from their warrens. The place was completely deserted.

Still ...

The sound of pounding hooves hit his ears, and Roman twirled to look behind himself, only to find the road deserted this early in the morning. Yet the pounding hooves carried over the hills, getting closer and closer, the rider egging them on into a full-fledged gallop.

Not about to take chances, Roman nudged his own mount forward, kicking up speed and bringing the stolen stallions along behind him. Trees whipped by as they galloped past, making the turn at breakneck speed. But no matter how fast he pushed the increasingly disobedient horses, he could just make out the sound of the unseen rider's horse, keeping pace as they both raced through the countryside.

Every few seconds, the stallions would fight him. They yanked on their leads, ground in their hooves, doing everything they could to slip free from their leads. Looking at his own horse, Roman watched the destrier's nostrils flare, his eyes dark and wide as he too tried to turn, fighting to head for the hill at Torchwick's side.

Pulling back on the reins, Torchwick hauled his horse back to the road, sparing a second's glance for that damn hill and whoever was...

He froze, the reins still gripped tight in his hands. The Baron's daughter sat atop her horse at the crest of the hill, staring down at the thief with golden eyes. She was a midnight-black shadow against the mid-morning sky, seated on a chestnut mare with dark socks and a darker mane. The wind caught her hair, whipping it around her face before flowing down the hill to Roman and the stallions, bringing with it the smells of horses and a hint of lilac perfume.

That was the last straw. With one mighty tug, the stolen horses pulled free, yanking away right as the destrier fought the reins. Fighting to keep his own mount under control, Roman cursed as his prize galloped up the hill towards the silent figure. With a crack of the reins, she turned and rushed down the other side of the mound, pursued by the horses Roman had so easily stolen.

* * *

 **Writer's Note: So, I've been in a bit of a dry spell for the past few weeks. Hopefully, I'm starting to get over it, which may mean more updates for some of my other longer-running series.**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review or comment if you can, anon is on and hearing from you all is what really makes my day.**


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